Shall sweet spite find its vitality in me?
It seems there is never a moment
That isn’t diminished by a kind of anguish
Until I come upon him
Still, it will be a great distance to find him
To unearth his center
His middle, where he comes together
Where I find him browsing through my thoughts
Stumbling upon instances of joy
In its moments of purity
Even his slightest touch
Will make me human again
And not concerned at all
With the over blossomed life of sorrow
Not troubled at all with what
Does not admire the sweet spring
A Dead Language 